


Trial and Error

by devilinthedetails



Category: PIERCE Tamora - Works, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Bitterness, Gen, Injustice, Justice, Knight & Squire, Law, Mercy - Freeform, Mockery, mentoring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-28 19:20:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14456034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilinthedetails/pseuds/devilinthedetails
Summary: After Joren's trial, Roald and Lord Imrah talk about justice. Set during Squire.





	Trial and Error

Trial and Error 

As Joren’s trial came to a stupefying close with Kel disappearing into a clerk’s office to speak to Roald’s parents about the miscarriage of justice that had just occurred and the flock of courtiers—gossiping like seagulls on a wharf as ever—trickled out of the courtroom, Roald remained in his bench. If his legs weren’t too numb to move, he might have tried to accompany Kel to support her, but it was just as well that his legs weren’t working, the part of him that was smarter than instinct knew, because it would be utterly uncouth for him to arrive uninvited in the middle of an important private meeting. 

Since he could do nothing else—his powerlessness as a prince eloquently emphasized by the mockery Joren had made of the law and monarchy—Roald stared up at the golden disk of Mithros above the thrones that were usually empty symbols of absent royalty but today had been filled at Roald’s request. He should have prayed to Mithros, maker of the laws he couldn’t fathom, but Mithros in the Divine Realms seemed so untouchable, remote, and never understandable or useful like the vaulted ceiling of a temple that Roald decided it would be a wasted appeal. The Mithran priests who had instructed him since he could talk had taught him that the justice of Mithros was as incomprehensible to mortals as mortal law was to mice scurrying about in search of crumbs. Bitter to the bone, Roald reflected that only Mithran priests in their cloisters would find that notion comforting when the law and everything sacred felt pointless as a book with no words. 

“I should never have come to see Joren make a farce of the Crown and our laws.” Resentment and regret overflowed from Roald, streaming toward his knightmaster, before he could dam the river. 

“If I recall correctly, you wanted to attend and asked Their Majesties to do so.” Lord Imrah arched an eyebrow. 

“You aren’t mistaken, my lord, but I was to attend and to request my parents do so.” Roald ducked his head at a reminder of a request, which now appeared as ill-advised as a child’s teary but willful supplication for a week’s worth of sweets in a single dessert, that he wished he could forget. As a prince born to everything he could have needed or wanted, he was reluctant to ask for favors from his parents for fear it would make him spoiled, and the one time he asked for a gift on a friend’s behalf, it had unraveled into a nightmare before his disbelieving eyes. Maybe that was his punishment for favoring a friend in any way in a matter of justice. 

He could have added that his parents were wrong to honor his request, but it was impertinent for a son to contradict his parents not to mention impolitic for a prince, even in a vacated court, to undermine his monarchs. Joren had sullied the Crown’s image and authority enough for one day. Roald wouldn’t fling any more mud or else people might suspect that to be royalty did not confer infallibility and that royalty was just playacting. Filling his role as perfect prince, Roald bit back the words that might have shattered the illusion around which they structured and finished, “If it weren’t for me, my parents wouldn’t have been here when Joren made a laughingstock of our laws.” 

“Duke Turomot applied every fine he could have to Joren’s offense.” Lord Imrah was calm and solid. That should have been reassuring to Roald, not vexing. “He punished Joren to the full extent of the law.” 

“Yes, sir, but that only drew into sharp relief how inadequate our laws are.” Roald massaged his aching, irritated temples. “Joren arranged for a woman to be kidnapped, and he is given a fine that might as well be a slap on the wrist.” 

“The men who kidnapped the maid were sentenced to hard labor,” answered Lord Imrah after a moment’s hesitation. “They will likely die in drudgery. Be content with that, Roald.” 

“I can’t be.” Roald’s fingers tightened around the bench where he and his knightmaster were seated until his knuckles were white as blank parchment. “My lord, those men would never have kidnapped if Joren hadn’t ordered the crime and paid well for them to commit it. They might have done the deed, but Joren orchestrated it, and that’s worse. He should be sentenced to hard labor, and the men he hired should be fined. They aren’t so rich that a fine would mean nothing to them.” 

“It’s unbecoming to sympathize with ruffians who kidnap maids for coin.” Lord Imrah shook his head in disapproval. “They made their choice, and they must live with the consequences.” 

“I’m confused, sir.” Roald frowned at the reproach that sounded so callous from a man he had always admired for compassion. “I remember you told me once that justice untempered by mercy was a terrible thing. Why is it now a terrible thing for me to wish mercy had been shown to the kidnappers who only acted according to Joren’s commands?”

“I’m gratified to hear that you listen and remember what I say, since most squires don’t.” Lord Imrah squeezed Roald’s shoulder. “I hope you will listen and remember when I say we ought to bestow mercy upon those who have wronged us but we have no right to deny justice to those beneath us who appeal to us for it after a crime has been committed against them in the name of mercy. Mercy that fails to hear the cries of the victims is no mercy and is injustice. It is not your place to forgive when you were not the one wronged. It is your place to punish according to the law.” 

“The law that didn’t punish Joren.” Roald’s forehead furrowed. Valuing justice above every other virtue, it rattled Roald to the core to witness awful proof of the law’s shortcomings in reflecting true justice. He recoiled instinctively from unfairness codified into law. 

“The law that fined Joren. Beyond that, it will be his knightmaster’s duty to ensure that he is disciplined properly.” Lord Imrah’s voice was firm as stone, but Roald couldn’t contain a snort at the suggestion that a knightmaster who hadn’t reproved Joren a single time throughout the trial would be able to exert the authority required to control or reform Joren. 

Piercing Roald with a quelling glance, Lord Imrah chided, “It’s disrespectful to snort your incredulity, Roald, since you are not a horse, and even more discourteous to speculate on how a knightmaster will discipline his squire behind closed doors, a matter that is none of our concern unless we wish to be regarded as petty rumormongers.” 

“Forgive me, my lord.” Roald dropped his gaze to the floor that had been walked upon by so many in pursuit of elusive justice at this stern reprimand. “I’m frustrated Joren has won, but that’s no excuse for my disrespecting you.” 

He would apologize for disrespecting his own knightmaster, whom he never intended to insult or dishonor in any way, but he would tug out his tongue before he repented for any discourtesy to Joren or the knight who had allowed Joren to flourish as a criminal mastermind. Fortunately Lord Imrah appeared inclined to overlook Roald’s intractability on that count. 

“I understand that you’re upset, squire, but that’s only because you’re guilty of the same short-term thinking Joren displayed in court today.” Lord Imrah lifted Roald’s chin as Roald found himself wide-eyed as a dead fish at the unexpected assault of a Joren comparison. Thinking that he would have preferred to be likened to a festering dungheap, he swallowed a protest as Lord Imrah continued, crisp as a splintering log in a blazing fire, “Before this trial, Duke Turomot, a staunch conservative, might have been an ally to Joren, but Joren’s mockery of the law he holds sacrosanct has turned him into Joren’s enemy. Once Lord Wyldon opposed a girl training as a knight, but Joren’s comments compelled Lord Wyldon to speak in her favor or admit he caved to royal pressure. I trust you can figure out how a man of Lord Wyldon’s honor would deem that an affront. Joren at best won a pyrrhic victory that cost him allies, exposed him to attack, and left him in an untenable, defenseless position. Whatever ground he gained today, he will lose in the long term.” 

“I understand.” Roald’s cheeks flamed at the realization that his passion had consumed his logic. Perhaps his family’s detractors were right in their accusations that the the Conte line ran higher to stubbornness and charm than it did to sense and proportion. “Thank you for pointing that out, sir.” 

“People like Joren are always poisoned by their own bitterness, lad.” Lord Imrah patted Roald on the back, but far from being comforted, Roald was reminded that for him there was a thin line separating Conte passion from vindictiveness to rival Joren’s. With a shiver at the mirror Lord Imrah’s remark had raised to the fearful symmetry between him and Joren, Roald swore to himself that he would never be poisoned by his own bitterness as Joren had.


End file.
